The Meantime In Between
by dietplainlite
Summary: Molly can't believe that she is in her thirties and is half of that couple. The one that is always breaking up and getting back together. She hasn't known a couple like that (other than Greg Lestrade and his wife) since her uni days.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N I don't own the characters. No profit. Yada yada. Thank you to Adi for the beta.**

One of his shirts is crumpled on the floor next to the bed. Not one of the dress shirts, of course. Those are all hanging neatly in the closet, arranged according to some color wheel for which only Sherlock has the key. This is a lowly t shirt. One that he must have thrown on at some point post-coitus and pre-shower. It is this shirt and its odor of their mingled sweat and sex that has Molly Hooper lying prone on his (formerly their) bed, staring at the digital clock on the bedside table.

She's been doing really well with the packing. She doesn't even have a place to move to yet (hasn't even started looking) but she wants to be damned sure she 'll be ready to go when she found something.

But as she was gathering up dirty laundry, she picked up this shirt, not certain if it was his or hers (plain white) and one whiff finally triggered the tears that she'd been shoving down since she let him leave, two days before.

They had made it five months this time. A record for them in the two years since they first decided to give this thing a go.

She can't believe that she is in her thirties and is half of that couple. The one that is always breaking up and getting back together. She hasn't known a couple like that (other than Greg Lestrade and his wife) since her uni days.

This time was significant in that it was the first time they had lived together, at least since the few days she harbored him after he faked his death. Their living arrangement was probably what had kept them together past their usual three month marker. So bloody hard to find a flat in London. She groans at the idea of all the "I told you so's" that will pass from her friends' lips and keyboards when they learn the news.

She wonders if any of this would be happening if she hadn't gone and gotten herself kidnapped. They had been broken up for a little over two months when Raul de Santos, whose conviction for Connie Prince's murder had been overturned while Sherlock was away, had very elegantly taken her at knifepoint as she was walking from Bart's to the tube stop. Charming smile, asking for directions, the sudden dig of the knife into her side as she pointed the way. Despite getting away with murder, he did hold a significant grudge against Sherlock for the time he had spent in prison.

It had taken Sherlock less than twenty four hours to track them down.

After Molly was cleared by the paramedics at the scene, Sherlock had gotten a taxi and accompanied her home. His face was seemingly impassive as he looked out the window at the city passing, but the tension in his jaw revealed his rage. Somehow, John Watson had gotten to de Santos first. She didn't want to think about what might have happened if Sherlock had been first on the scene.

With all the adrenaline from her rescue expended, exhaustion was setting in quickly as they pulled up to her building. It hadn't registered that he had sent the cab away instead of having it wait while he walked her inside. He knew how hard it was to get a taxi on her street late at night. He'd opened the door and told her to wait just inside while he swept through all the rooms, making sure everything was safe. It didn't take him long to explore the tiny flat, and the second he knew it was clear he let the façade drop away, and just before he pulled her into him, shutting the door with his foot and leaning back against it as he held her, she saw the terror in his eyes. He had held her for a long time, his body shaking and his heart hammering in her ear. She sank into it, her body instinctually finding the old places where she fit best. Soon the soft kisses he was placing on her head became frantic open mouthed kisses and he had picked her up and carried her to her bedroom, where a stream of apologies and entreaties to never leave him while he lost himself inside her culminated in a confession of love and a plea for her to move in.

He had fallen asleep almost immediately after, and as she followed, she wondered if he would be there when she awoke.

He had been. And she had given him an out, telling him she totally understood. It was all adrenaline and relief.

Sherlock had barely looked up from his paper before casually telling her to not be ridiculous and that he would pay whatever was needed to get out of her lease. She had told him she needed time to think. So he had taken her to bed again, and after two days of his very methodical, intensely attentive method of persuasion, her mind was enough of a stew of hormones and endorphins to agree to move to Baker Street.

However, she refused his money and opted to sublease her flat for the remainder of the lease term. That lease had run out last month and the subletter had decided to become the letter. Bollocks. At least she had put her furniture in storage rather than sell it. She wonders if that decision was subconsciously directed by the knowledge that things would eventually fall apart.

Molly's phone rings and she lets it go to voicemail. It rings again almost immediately. She looks at the display. Mary. She answers this time because she knows that Mary will either keep calling or come over. She doesn't want anyone to come over and see the state of her and the flat. Someone else's seeing would make it real. Mary's sympathetic eyes would shine on Molly's shame like a Klieg light, leaving no unlit corners for her to hide.

She cuts to the chase. "Hi Mary. So, is your sister still an estate agent?"

"Oh, Molly, what's happened? " Molly appreciates that she didn't tack on a "this time."

"We broke up again. He's gone. I'm here. I need to find a flat."

Mary is the one person that she can count on to not say "I told you so," even if it's what she's thinking. "Do you need me to come over?"

"Yes, but I don't want you to."

"Well, in that case I'll be there in half an hour. When's the last time you ate anything?"

"We had just come home from dinner when it happened. Two days ago. I don't want anything."

Molly can hear Mary gathering her keys and bag and opening the door.

"Have you been drinking?"

"No."

"Okay, make it forty-five minutes. Take a shower. Don't say anything. I know you. You're sitting in your own filth and I don't want to have to breathe through my mouth the whole time I'm there."

The shower walls are filthy (the two of them had been in a standoff regarding cleaning it) but the water is hot and the water pressure impressive for such an old building. She stands under it until the temperature drops, not really washing. She turns from back to front intermittently; making sure her body takes an even pounding.

Her friend is in the kitchen when she steps out of the shower. Molly is a bit embarrassed to be wearing Sherlock's dressing gown, but she had forgotten to check the cupboard for towels and it was the only thing handy. She shrugs when Mary eyes her up and down.

Delicious smells waft from the bags and there is a particularly interesting looking, very cylindrical brown paper bag tucked among the takeaway. Molly's stomach, to her embarrassment, growls.

"Ah, you're alive after all, aren't you?" Mary crosses the distance between them and hugs her tightly. "We're gonna talk all about it, but not until you've stuffed your face and had at least one whisky."

Once dinner had been sorted and Molly had downed two whiskies, Mary asked her what had happened. Molly hid her face in a pillow.

"What was that?"

Molly lifted her head and sighed.

"I brought up Violet Hunter."


	2. Chapter 2

Violet Hunter happened after the first time they broke up. She should have predicted the breakup. Three months in, he came back from a long case and told her he had been mistaken about his capacity to commit to a relationship, that missing her had been intrusive and had nearly undermined his ability to solve the case, and that he would prefer their relationship to go back to its former level of friendly professionalism.

She'd told him to never contact her again, and to find another lab, but it turned out that she didn't actually have the authority to prevent him access.

What she never would have predicted was that he would fall into a relationship again, much less a month later. And with a client. A pretty and clever client who, according to John's blog, had observational skills that rivaled Sherlock's. Molly had wanted to throw up when she read John's account of the case. She could read between the lines and her suspicions were confirmed in the worst way possible: full color candid photos in a gossip rag.

Violet Hunter was more than "pretty." Violet Hunter looked like a bloody Bollywood starlet. Violet Hunter had mile long legs and perfect not-too-big-not-too-small-breasts. Violet Hunter had tawny skin, green eyes and magnificent dark brown hair. Violet Hunter was twenty-three bloody years old, and Violet Hunter was photographed coming out of a restaurant with Molly's ex-boyfriend, holding hands. For Sherlock Holmes, holding hands in public was the equivalent of snogging on a bench in Hyde Park on a Saturday afternoon.

She met Violet once. She had been called in to work on her day off and Sherlock was in the lab when she got there. They had not been able to completely avoid working together since their split, but Sherlock had obviously been timing his visits to coincide with her time off. He still left work for her to do, but now he left notes or messaged her. It was infuriating, and she only complied if it was for an actual case, not an experiment.

When they had locked eyes, everyone else sort of awkwardly shuffled to different corners of the room. Molly had given him what she hoped was a friendly smile and headed to her office. However, before she reached the door, her attention was drawn by a low, rather melodic voice.

"Sherlock, you said half seven. We're going to be late."

Molly's mind screamed at her to keep going into her office. To shut the door. That she didn't need to confront this head on. That it was only going to _hurt_. But she turned around anyway.

In person, Violet's beauty was devastating. But her beautiful skin and her perfect, full mouth and her sparkling, clever eyes weren't half as devastating as the hand the girl had placed so familiarly on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock moved away slightly and cleared his throat.

"I told you I'd meet you downstairs. I was about to head out."

The girl became aware of the tension in the room, and looked around. Her eyes flicked over John, whom she already knew. They glanced off of Mike Stamford and the lab tech, obviously disinterested. Then they landed on Molly and looked her over before smiling brightly.

"You must be Molly," the girl said, walking toward her. John intercepted, asking Violet if she'd like to take a look at the cultures Sherlock was working on. She shrugged and looked over her shoulder at Molly as she walked away. Her smile seemed genuine enough, but there was an energy about her that was familiar. She was pulled taut, like a bowstring ready to fire. It was the kind of energy that emanated from Sherlock when he forced himself to behave for Molly's sake or for John's. She hated to imagine what observations Violet would have for Sherlock about her.

Sherlock started to say something to Molly but she mumbled something about having loads of work to do and retreated into her office. A few minutes later Mike came in with a cup of tea and let her know they had left. Molly thanked him and they both pretended he hadn't noticed her puffy eyes and red nose.

Violet and Sherlock's relationship lasted less than a month, and when he came back to Molly, a month or so after Violet had left him, she never asked if they had slept together. She knew she needed to ask, at the very least for her own health, but she never could. He didn't volunteer the information or, for that matter, any information about Violet at all. But when Molly let him back into her bed, there were new things. Things he'd never done with her. She hated that she loved them.

She never talked to him about any of it. She's not even sure if she ever acknowledged Violet's existence until the first time she brought her up when she was mad at him.

They were walking back from seeing a string quartet when Molly tripped on crack in the pavement and landed hard. She'd had one more glass of wine than usual and her heels were a bit higher than the ones she usually wore. She laughed it off, but her knees were fairly scraped up.

Once at his flat, while he gave her first aid, he relentlessly scolded her for not being more observant of her surroundings. She muttered something about how not everyone could be as observant as Violet Hunter.

He froze, his hands still on the plaster he had just placed on her knee.

"I suppose not," he said. He packed away the first aid kit and stood up. She heard him on his phone in the sitting room, calling her a taxi. She went home and cried herself to sleep, expecting things to be over again.

He messaged her the next day asking her to take photos of her injuries as they healed, and that he'd had John send a strongly worded email to the city regarding the dreadful state of the pavement on Baker Street.

This time, they had already been locked into a full blown shouting match that started over his wanting to follow another restaurant patron whom Sherlock had suspected of forging rare documents. It went on long enough that Mrs. Hudson had threatened to turn them both out if they didn't quiet down so she could watch Coronation Street in peace, and that the drama on the telly was quite enough for her.

Molly told Mrs. Hudson to go away and Sherlock yelled at Molly not to yell at his landlady and Molly had yelled back at him, reminding him that he yells at Mrs. Hudson all the time.

The woman in question had thrown her hands in the air and gone back downstairs.

"The point is," Molly said, "I'm not keen on being your crime fighting sidekick. My part is in the lab and the morgue. I don't run around trying to get myself killed."

"Oh no, you do a fine job of that just trying to walk across the room."

Something white hot exploded in her. "Oh, I'm sorry. If you want a perfect, graceful little sidekick that you can take out on crime scenes and fuck later, you can go back to Violet. She's the best of both worlds, isn't she?"

Sherlock crossed the room and took her by the arms. "Listen. You're apparently the one who's obsessed with her, so why don't _you_ date her. I already did." He let her go, went to his room and started throwing clothes into his overnight bag.

"Where are you going?"

"That's none of your concern. You can stay here until you find a new place. I can't do this anymore."

"Of course, you can't, you fucking coward," she sobbed. "Just fucking go."

Sherlock dropped his bag and turned around. He strode toward her, pulled her to him and kissed her.

She blushes when she tells Mary about it, recalling how she had responded to it, almost immediately, hands in his hair and pressing her body against his, trying to close a distance that wasn't physical.

But she'd come to her senses as he'd tried to lead her to the bedroom, breaking away and yelling at him that that wasn't the answer, that it couldn't make things better.

"And I feel like a fool," she says now to her friend. "Because after all, wasn't I the one who taught him, over and over again, that it _is _the answer?"

"Oh, Molly. Molly. She happened ages ago, and you two were broken up."

"I can't fucking get over it, okay? I mean, it's not like I think about it all the time or anything, but sometimes when I get really mad at him it's there and it's like throwing petrol on a bonfire and most of the time I can stop myself before I say something because I know it's stupid, but this time I couldn't."

Mary looks at her and makes a decision.

"Sherlock came over last night to talk to John. He didn't say anything about what happened, or I'd have been over here right away. He just wanted to talk to John, and you know that sometimes he forgets that I'm around when he and John get to talking. But he started talking about Violet, and he said that he was the one that broke up with her, not the other way around."

"But the papers—"

"Yes, the papers. That's what _Violet_ told them, and he didn't care enough to correct them because it just doesn't matter to him. And I guess he never realized that it might matter to you. John asked him why he broke up with her."

"What did he say?"

"He told John that Violet Hunter is beautiful and clever—no, he said brilliant. But she also lacks any kind of actual tenderness or regard for other people, and that sometimes, when he saw her interact with people, he understood why it was that people react so negatively to him. I was gob smacked, Molly. It was the most self-aware thing I've ever heard him say."

Molly is stunned.

"That's not all. He said that he broke up when her when he realized he was reverting back to some of his old habits, in the way he treated people, the way he saw people. And this was something that John and I noticed while he was with her but of course, we couldn't really say anything. I just avoided her as much as possible."

"But Mary, even with, all of that. Even if he did break it off because she was wrong for him, I can't get over it. It's been a year and a half, and it's not like he cheated, he just had a rebound girlfriend. But I just can't let it go and I don't know how to. Even though I know it's crazy. Even though I know it's bloody hypocritical, I wanted to be his only. God at least for more than a few months. I waited so fucking long and then opened him up to the idea of relationships and sex and she was able to just snag him up after knowing him for three weeks?"

Mary sips her drink quietly. She starts to speak a few times and stops before hitting on what she wants to say.

"Molly, I was fourteen when I had my first boyfriend. How old were you?"

"Sixteen. "

"And had Sherlock ever had a real relationship before you?"

"Well, there was a friend at uni, Victor. The way he talked about him always made me wonder. And that weirdness with Irene Adler."

"In other words, no."

"No. I think John was the first mature friendship he'd ever had."

"If you can call it mature," Mary says with a smirk. "The point is, we've all had close to two decades to figure out this relationship business, through trial and error. But he's like a teenage boy who's just discovered girls."

"Why didn't he ever tell me how he felt about her, and how it ended?"

"Molly, think about who you're talking about."

"Because I didn't ask, so he assumed I didn't care."

"Right. And you were too afraid to ask because you were afraid of the answers. But Molly, even if he did like her, even if he did have sex with her, I'm pretty damned sure he didn't love her. Now, I hate to leave you right now but I do have to go. You'll be okay? I've given you a lot to think about."

"Yes," Molly says, burying her face in the pillow again)

"Okay. I'll phone you in the morning." She stands to collect her things, and put on her shoes. "And Molly, you've had three whiskies. Whatever you do, don't text him! At least not tonight."

"Okay."

"Look me in the eye and say it. Don't make me take your phone."

Molly lifts her head from the pillow and looks her friend in the eye. "I promise I will not drunk text Sherlock Holmes."

"Good."

Molly groans, looking a little sick to her stomach.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"My life is a fucking Taylor Swift song."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly lasts twenty minutes before sending him a text. She tells herself it's okay because it's a business matter. She is not so drunk that her motor skills are severely impaired, just her common sense.

-I'm leaving you a check to replace the rent checks you didn't deposit. Deposit it. I don't want to owe you anything-

-If you don't cash it I will donate it to Mycroft's favorite charity.—

-And don't tell me to use it for a security deposit. I have savings for that.—

Twenty minutes later she receives a reply.

_-Do what you want with it. I don't need it. I told you I could cover the rent. SH—_

-Yes and I told you that I would pay half and you should have let me.—

_-Why? I have more money than I will ever need, even if I can't access it all at once. SH—_

-You always cashed John's checks.—

_-When he had them, yes. But it was some sort of pride thing for him. And I wasn't sleeping with him. SH—_

Molly wants to throw her phone across the room. Instead, she holds it tightly between her palms while she contemplates how to respond.

-I see. Free rent in exchange for sex? Is that really what you think of me?—

It is several minutes before she receives a response. When she reads it, she can almost hear the world weary sigh he must have emitted when he sent it.

_-If you think that I consider our relationship to have been a form of prostitution, you cannot be more wrong. I merely wanted to do what I could to make your life easier. SH—_

_-_Respecting my wishes would have made my life easier. It's a pride thing for me too. I have never needed anyone to take care of me since I left my parents' house.—

An hour later she is dozing in his chair while watching a Marple mystery when her text alert goes off. She puts down the takeaway container she's been picking at and looks at her phone.

-Are you really going to move out? SH—

Molly sighs and looks at the boxes scattered around the flat. They're mostly half full and a few of them even have items in them that are related to each other in some way.

-Yes.—

-No.—

-I don't know. Do you really want me to? It was your suggestion after all.—

_-I want you to understand that I never think about her at all. And I wish you wouldn't. SH—_

-Wish I wouldn't what? Think about her, or move out?—

She bites off every one of her fingernails in the five minutes it takes him to reply.

_-Both. SH—_


	4. Chapter 4

Molly turns off her phone. She downs another whisky while she tackles the pile of dishes in the sink. She brushes her teeth. She even flosses. She washes her face and moisturizes. She stares at the fine lines around her eyes for a good fifteen minutes. She climbs into bed, sets the alarm, has a good quick round with her vibrator and closes her eyes for sleep.

She does all of this so that she will not text him two words that will be full of folly no matter their outcome. "Come over."

The alarm pierces a good dream that has just turned bad. She forgot to put it on the radio setting. She gets it to turn off on the third try and lies on her stomach, head pounding to the same rhythm as the now silent alarm.

She weighs the guilt she will feel for calling out of work against the possibility that she will not be able to make it out the door and through the day without throwing up continuously.

She turns her phone on, calls work, and goes back to sleep.

Later, she sits on the sofa, nursing a mug of weak tea and reviewing the messages on her phone when she hears him on the stairs. He is either alone, or John is waiting below.

Sherlock walks in and stops when he sees her, his hand still on the doorknob. He takes in everything in seconds. The still half-full boxes, the circles under her eyes, the death grip she has on her mug; the fact that she hasn't yet brushed her hair.

He looks impeccable. But there are things she sees, because she has spent so much time watching him put on his suits in the morning, and so many mornings, afternoons and nights helping him take them off.

"I thought you'd be at work."

"I'm not."

"Obviously."

He stands in the doorway, fiddling with his phone. He types and sends a text message and heads to the bedroom.

"I came to get more clothes. Like I said, I thought you'd be gone."

Molly sips her tea and definitely doesn't think about the very subtle ways that he is frayed around the edges. Or about how he has taken off his coat and jacket. She stands and goes to the window, getting there just in time to see John Watson check his phone, get in the waiting taxi and drive away.

She takes some solace in the fact that she changed out of his dressing gown and into one of her own sleep shirts—a clean one even-before passing out last night.

He comes up behind her, slowly, quietly, and just like that, his arms are wrapped around her waist and his chin rests on her head. She closes her eyes and breathes in, willing herself to step away.

"You've been smoking," she says. She puts one hand on his forearm (he has turned his sleeves up and it is bare) and takes a shaky gulp from her mug.

"Yes. Can you tell what brand?"

She breathes in again and lightly strokes the hair on his arm as she thinks.

"Rothman's?" she says, nose wrinkling.

"Just one, got it off a window washer."

"Is that all?"

His arms tighten around her and he nuzzles her temple. "Yes," he whispers into her ear, "I've been good."

She speaks right as he takes her earlobe into his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me that you broke up with her?"

He stops and gives her a quick kiss behind her ear instead. "Why does that matter?"

"It matters because—Sherlock—I always thought, and I know you're going to think it's stupid but just listen to me. I always thought that since she left you that you'd want to get back together with her. So when we're together it seemed like only a matter of time before you'd leave me for her and when we were apart I just knew that any day I'd find out again that you were dating her."

"Then why were you the one to break up with me, that second time? Wouldn't you think you were just sending me into her arms?"

She is quiet. It's hard to talk about, even now, more than a year later. She is glad that they're both still facing the window and can only see the barest outline of their reflections.

He had almost died on a case in another country. During the case she didn't hear from him for three weeks. Not even a text via John or Mycroft that he was still alive and uninjured. It was worse than when he was gone those two years after his "death." At least then she got fairly regular updates, though they usually came in the form of a post card with no message sent with a post mark different from the photo on the card. She still has them, in a cigar box with the few other postcards she's received in her life.

She sighs. "I thought that if I made myself get over you it wouldn't hurt so badly if you did finally manage to get yourself really killed."

He pulls her even tighter against him and nuzzles his nose into her neck.

"Sherlock, why did you do it?"

"What?" his voice is muffled by her hair and skin and she feels the vibration of his voice against her neck and her back.

"You broke up with me that first time because you didn't want the distraction, or whatever it was. And then, like that, there was someone else. Do you know how much that hurt me?"

"I didn't really at first, to be honest. Because I thought by your behavior that you hated me; that you were finished with me. But later, I suspected, and I haven't known how to make it up to you. "He takes her hand and leads her to the sofa to sit down. She moves to sit at the opposite end of the sofa, but he pulls her across his lap. It's not necessarily sexual. He has always required close proximity when speaking of difficult things. She tucks her head under his chin, giving him the closeness and the absence of eye contact he craves.

"I wanted to prove to myself that it wasn't about you. I wanted to prove that it was all just chemicals and it didn't really matter what woman, it was just sexual attraction that my brain was mistaking for—love and affection."

"So you used her?"

"No—"

"Then you loved her."

"There is a middle ground to be found there, Molly," he said. "I liked her and I wanted to get to know her better, but once I did—it was so obvious. I could put her out of my mind when I wanted, just like that. It was so easy. At first I thought that was a good thing. But I realized it meant that I hadn't truly connected to her, and eventually I realized I didn't want to. She would make a fairly good colleague but would never be a good friend. And I never gave you any details because you didn't ask. And I assumed that mean that either you didn't care, or that you cared a lot and that anything I said about her would hurt you."

Molly turns her face to his chest. "I'm sorry. I should have asked you about it. I should have made you tell me about it, and demanded an explanation then. I shouldn't have let it fester."

Silence. He kisses her on the top of the head. She looks up and kisses him ever so softly on the side of his mouth. Before she can pull away, he kisses her full on the mouth, his hand reaching into her hair, cradling her neck. She wraps her arms around his neck and opens her lips to his exploring tongue. They move like this, coming up for air and for brief words, only to descend again, for several minutes, sinking into a pattern that will lead to the next step, and the next and will end in a tangled mess of limbs and regret.

Sherlock pulls away slightly, but only to find the hem of Molly's shirt and slide his hands inside.

"I thought you said this wouldn't make things better," he says, before taking her lower lip between his teeth.

"It won't." she says against his mouth.

He stops and cradles her face in his hands, looking her in the eyes. "Then why are we doing it?"

"Because we're idiots," she says, leaning forward and attacking his lower lip.

"Do you know how hard it was to keep from coming over here last night?" She is unbuttoning his shirt and he is unrolling the cuffs.

"About as hard as it was for me to keep from telling you to come over?"

His shirt falls to the floor. He pulls her shirt over her head.

"I did a forensic analysis of my hotel room using only my magnifying glass."

"What did you find?" She moves to his trousers, thankful that he hardly ever bothers with a belt, since his trousers are tailored so perfectly.

"Nothing serious. An orgy or two, maybe one Satanic ritual, but no sacrifices. Not enough to make me need to change rooms." He assists her as she pulls off his trousers and pants in one movement. They are both free of clothing other than her knickers.

"Oh my God. Where are you staying?"

"The Mandarin."

"Sherlock, really?" She is straddling him, and he has her right nipple in his mouth.

"Yes." He releases her nipple. "Did you think that thing only takes place in seedy places where you pay by the hour?"

"No, but—"

"We can go there later, the bed is exquisite. And relatively clean. Most of the evidence was on the furniture and walls."

Molly makes a noncommittal noise and leans in to kiss him. Later in the day is too far into the future to think. She already knows she's going to regret this. There is no need to make any plans.


End file.
